


Ice in Your Veins

by ShadowState



Series: sounds like something Else [1]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowState/pseuds/ShadowState
Summary: The price probably (definitely) outweighs what you gain if you look at it from a practical standpoint, but at least this way you know what to expect - and the heart's never cared about what's practical, anyways.





	Ice in Your Veins

There is a boy who appears in the snow every winter and stands in place for hours on end, staring into the distance, and no one ever sees when he comes or leaves. He has extremely pale skin and platinum hair and wears loose, white linen clothing that fall in folds under a thick white coat with a heavily-furred white collar. He carries a light-brown satchel and his eyes are red, like wine or crushed pomegranate seeds ( _but definitely not like any other red liquids you could name, definitely not_ ), and they seem to be the only color he has about him. He looks as young as a high-school freshman.

The people who hurry across the campus walk around him, giving him at least four meters of space at all times even if walking straight would be faster. They don’t look at him, and he doesn’t seem to notice them. However, every once in awhile, a freshman will stare openly, and he will lift his head and stare into their eyes, no matter how far they are. And he will smile, a too-broad smile that sends shivers down the foolish freshman’s spine. Most of them disappear soon afterwards. Those who don’t are often shaken, with darting eyes and quivering shoulders. No one speaks about either type.

But there are faint, faint whispers of people ( _desperate people_ ) who have made a Deal with him. They bring creamers and plain, homemade vanilla ice cream and hand-picked white flowers as offerings, and they bring a sharp knife and empty bucket for their part of the bargain, and they come back stumbling, disoriented, and wait desperately for emails from family and hospitals, for the news of a loved one’s miraculous, inexplicable recovery from a terminal illness.

Your mother has breast cancer. She is in the later stages and you are told that she’ll die soon. You’re desperate enough to trade with the Boy Who Stands in the Snow, even knowing that They are not kind to the desperate. So you pick the best of the jasmine and peace lily blossoms you have in your flowerpots and grab two creamers, a small, plastic bucket you bought from the Walmart, one of the knives from the cutting block in the kitchen, and a roll of bandages. You leave your iron bracelet on your bed, but keep wearing your iron necklace and sprinkle extra salt into your coat pockets, and once you finish preparing you march out into the cold like you are going to your execution.

You trudge through half a foot of snow, with occasional gusts of wind blowing it into your eyes, until you stand before him. You hold out your offerings (you held them in your hands instead of putting them in your pockets, since your salt is in there) and he accepts them, slipping them into the pockets of his satchel - you try your best to focus away from his hands. Then he lifts his head and stares through you. You try to fight against the shivers, but it's fruitless.

“Would you make a Deal with me?” he asks, and you can only say yes. His voice sounds as youthful as his appearance.

“My mother has cancer. I am willing to pay the price you want, but only if you heal her completely, so she no longer has it and can’t get it or any other disease like it again.” falls from cold-numbed lips, stuttering just slightly. You should have gone to one of the law majors for help before you did this. At least you don't have to give your mother’s name, not with this particular Neighbor, but seeping tendrils of discomfort are curling around in your stomach anyways. However, you must give something to receive something.

His eyes are still staring through you. There are prickles of ice creeping up your spine.

His mouth twists in that mockery of a smile. “You know what the price I want is.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyways, and begin to fumble with the knife, bucket, and bandages - also held, not kept in your pockets - and do your best to steady your hands. ‘Not good’ would be an understatement if you make a mistake here. You attempt to roll up one sleeve, but the thick material of your coat prevents it and you end up having to shrug off one side of your coat. You crouch to put the bucket down and wedge it into the snow, before holding your exposed arm over it with the knife’s blade poised to slice into your skin. The wind stings, as sharp as the knife itself. You take a breath - and move the blade.

The tiny bucket is filled almost halfway. Your mind is fuzzy and confused. Did you even use the knife? Your memories blur at the first touch of the blade. But you look, and there is a clean, straight gash marring your skin that’s still trickling red ( _you don’t look up to meet his eyes, you don’t look to compare the color_ ).

You wipe off the knife in the snow, leaving a smear of bright color, stand, and hold out the bucket as steadily as you can. Its contents are your price.

He doesn’t touch the bucket, but clasps his hands and bends over like he’s praying. He isn’t.

The crimson liquid in the bucket lifts in the air and crystallizes, forming into four eight-sided, ruby-hued dice with foreign runes carved into every other face. You don’t look too closely at them. You manage to redirect your attention to the bandages, and attempt to wrap them around your arm as best you can before he finishes. You don’t look to see what he does with the newly formed crystals, but keep your eyes firmly averted. You can smell a coppery tang, and a fresh, clean scent that you somehow recognized as the snow itself. You never knew snow had its own scent.

Suddenly, his hands dips beneath your chin and turns your face up to him. It feels like ice is being pressed to your skin. He is ‘smiling’, and stares intently into your eyes. Ice is no longer creeping up your spine - your spine itself has turned to ice, and it’s creeping through your bones and through your veins. The cold nips your ears and pecks you on the lips and at the corners of your eyes, it entwines its fingers with yours and wraps you in an embrace while ruffling your hair. You can barely remember that you need to breathe, and when you do it dives down your throat and makes itself at home in your belly. You’ve never felt so cold before.

He releases you after a thousand eons, and you are gasping in air that seems much warmer than when you first stumbled out into the snow.

“It is done,” he tells you, and you stumble, bow, and scoop the empty bucket up from the snow - you dropped it? You manage to remember the method described to you to conclude the deal and excuse yourself from the presence of this particular Gentlebeing. Your thoughts are all fuzzy, so you’re extra careful to stick to your script and not stray. He does not push you from it - not out of charity, but because you are of no interest now. The deal is done and he has what he wants.

You are still cold when you re-enter your dorm. You are still cold when your quiet, somber roommate hands you a warm mug of cocoa with a murmured ‘freely given’ and a sideways glance. You are still cold when you sit on your bed, swaddle yourself in your thickest blankets, and sip from the mug.

You are cold throughout the night, snow flurries filling your restless dreams after you force yourself to sleep - the notice of your mother’s recovery will not come immediately, after all, and nothing good will come from a sleepless night. After you wake up, stumble into the shower, put on clothes and replace the bandages (tying them a bit more carefully this time, since you don’t need to rush), when you head back into the bathroom to brush your teeth and tie your hair back, you’re caught by surprise by a bright glint of white in the mirror. Spitting out the last of your toothpaste, you lean as close as you can to the mirror and inspect your eyes. You’re shocked (although perhaps you shouldn’t be) to see large flecks of white-silver splattered across your irises and pupils, plainly visible to any who meet your eyes. If you were to guess, you’d say that colored contacts would probably not make any difference, the flecks seem to shine with an almost hypnotic light that seems maybe three-fifths unreal (it might be four-sixths, though). Looking at them, the chills, which are just as present as when you stumbled back into the dorm the evening prior, seem to wriggle under your skin, making themselves comfortable. Somehow, they’re beginning to feel familiar, like they belong there.

You think you might know a bit more now about why none of the others who dealt with the Boy Who Stands in the Snow ever left to see their loved ones’ recoveries personally - not in a single story you unearthed.

You grab a hair tie and go to check your email anyways. Even if you can’t see her again in person ever again, even if she ends up forgetting that she ever birthed you, she is your mother, and you are still desperate to confirm that she’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Partially based off a really weird dream involving the pale guy and buckets of blood. Partially ‘cause I miss winter. It changed as I wrote it and is now really different from the original idea, but I think I like how this turned out.  
> This is the first story I’m actually posting and is unbeta’d, so constructive feedback is _definitely_ appreciated. If you notice anything, feel free to point it out to me, I really appreciate it.


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